A Rub of the Green
by aWICKEDgiraffe
Summary: When he is eleven, Mycroft's perfect world—the perfect vision he had of himself—literally comes crashing down in his back garden in the form of a man claiming to be a wizard. A Potterlock kidfic centered on Mycroft.
1. Appetence

Mycroft Holmes was a special little boy. He'd known it from the time he was three years old. He was clever and cunning in a way most toddlers just simply weren't; after all, he could look at a person and just _know_ how to get them to do what he wanted; it was instinctual, almost, and most adults didn't even _notice_ his manipulations. How could a toddler be capable of such subterfuge, after all?

A perfect example was his wetnurse-slash-nanny. She was a childless widower, and had taken up the career to delude herself into believing that the children she cared for were her own. Of course, he couldn't diagnose this condition quite so elegantly as a three-year-old, but it was enough to simply notice her tendency to call him "my darling," and "my dear child," and other such motherly endearments. It was enough to observe that when he deliberately called for her, or appealed to her maternal instincts (by calling for her when he was alone, or intentionally pricking his finger so she'd have a wound to tend, etcetera) he was quite likely to get extra sweeties after supper.

Practice made perfect, and by age four Mycroft could play any adult in the room as beautifully as his mother played her violin. Unfortunately, being still only a toddler then, his desires had been quite lacking in ambition; he was content to simply get out of his naps and score extra pastries from the nanny and the cook. Even despite his unique talent, Mycroft couldn't yet understand how he was anything more than just a particularly clever child. Not yet. Not then.

* * *

The beginning of the end of this misinformed opinion came with the beginning of school. Being in constant contact with "regular" children gave Mycroft a reference point off which to build a _new_ opinion—he wasn't anything _like_ a normal child. He was cleverer, of course, but it was more than that … there were stranger differences that he had only just begun to notice.

The first major incident occurred about three weeks after he'd begun kindergarten. The class had a pet rabbit named Peter, whom the teacher had brought in after they'd read the famous book. Every week, a new little boy and girl would be allowed to take Peter outside for recess when the weather was warm, to exercise him (under the eyes of their teacher, of course.) The third week it was his turn, along with a girl named Marsha. They carried him out to the playground and proceeded to watch him hop around, sniffing and chewing on grass. It was quite dull.

Suddenly, a loud burst of barking was heard. A nearby woman, out walking her dog past the school, lost control of the beast as it rushed towards the fence, eyes set on Peter. The poor rabbit was so startled he took off, zipping past the play yard and disappearing into the overgrown field behind it. Mycroft and Marsha immediately took off after him, the girl shrieking out Peter's name while Mycroft just complained silently that he had to run anywhere, least of all after a stupid rabbit—he disliked rigorous exercise.

In the field, Mycroft logically suggested they split-up to cover more ground, and Marsha agreed; so each child started walking in a different direction, calling out the rabbit's name.

"Peter," Mycroft called half-heartedly, kicking a little rock in front of him. He was incredibly irritated, still feeling a bit winded from his unappreciated workout. "Peter, come back at once!"

A rustling came from a tuft of grass about two meters away, and then the little brown-spotted rabbit had hopped out, resting on his hind legs and giving Mycroft an expectant look.

"Oh, there you are," Mycroft said. "That wasn't very nice of you, hopping off like that. I had to run after you. I don't like to run."

He wasn't expecting a response; so when Peter cocked an ear, like a human would cock an eyebrow, Mycroft kept on, a bit startled and a lot curious. "What if we hadn't found you? You'd be stuck out here."

Peter flicked his whiskers as if he were brushing aside Mycroft's concern. _Here is nice._

"Well, you say that now, but where would you sleep when it got dark?"

The rabbit dug his paws into the ground, creating a little indent in the soil. _I would make a burrow here._

"Don't be ridiculous," Mycroft said. "The sawdust in your pen is much softer than the ground. Plus, it's warmer inside the classroom. You'd get too cold out here, and nobody would feed you."

Peter nibbled on a blade of grass. _I do like being fed._

"Yes, well there you have it. Now, do come back with me, please. Recess will be over soon and I don't want to get into trouble." And so, Mycroft had walked all the way back to a stunned Martha and Mrs. Bentsworth, who were watching the little brown-spotted rabbit hopping along obediently behind him with dropped jaws.

"How are you doing that?" Martha asked loudly.

"Doing what?"

"Making him follow you like that!"

Mycroft looked at Peter. "I'm not making Peter do anything. I asked him nicely."

His teacher had looked at him strangely and Martha had accused him of concealing carrots in his coat pocket, but despite the excitement it wasn't long until the whole situation had been forgotten. Except, that is, by Mycroft, who found himself wondering quite often if it was _cleverness_ that allowed him to communicate with the rabbit, or mere delusion.

* * *

The second incident quickly followed the first, followed by a third, and then a fourth—a pair of his father's eyeglasses remarkably repaired themselves before he could confess to breaking them. That stupid Peter Rabbit kept interrupting him during quiet time, demanding why they weren't taking him outside anymore (to which he'd hissed, "Because it's winter and it's too cold!" and then got in trouble for being noisy). Most alarmingly—when he'd accidentally dropped it, his prized, leather-bound pocket dictionary decided to _hover_ a few inches off the ground instead of falling into the wet, slushed snow beneath it like it should have.

Pretty soon the incidences became too numerous to count. As objects moved on their own around him and strange coincidences kept occurring, Mycroft decided that the only way to keep his cool was to ignore the occurrences altogether. He put the eyeglasses back; he quickly grabbed his dictionary and kept walking. He ignored Peter as hard as he could. It was easy enough to convince himself, in those moments, that all the events had logical explanations, and when he was book-smarter he'd be able to understand exactly what they were.

* * *

When he was seven, Mycroft's mother decided it was pointless for the live-in nanny to be employed full-time, with Mycroft attending school. So she kicked the older woman out of her rooms in the estate and greatly reduced her hours. Now, she only came in the afternoons when Mummy and Father weren't at home; and since Mummy rarely left the house, Mycroft suddenly found himself quite frequently alone.

He didn't like it.

He was not an imaginative child; he could not think up satisfactory adventures to have in the back garden, or make-believe any suitable friends for himself. (He did try once, to quite lackluster results.) Instead, Mycroft read books by himself and took walks around the garden unaccompanied and generally did not see another living soul until supper, when his small family would gather around a large table and make abysmal small-talk (if they talked at all.) Then it was off to bed, alone, where Mycroft would try to fall asleep even as the staggering pressure of utter silence pressed in on him in the dark.

He tolerated this new isolation for as long as he could—and then decided to take matters into his own hands. One snowy December afternoon, after returning home from school, Mycroft strode into the library where he knew his mother would be, draped across her favorite settee and reading her usual noir crime novel.

"Mummy," Mycroft began, after they had exchanged affectionate greetings, "Lately I have felt quite lonely."

"Oh, dear," his mother replied airily, setting aside her book. "That isn't a good feeling to have."

"No. I'm not fond of it."

Mummy looked thoughtful. "Perhaps we should invite some of your schoolmates over for tea. Do any of them live close by?"

Mycroft didn't want to tell his mother how little he could stand the other children in his class—so he opted for a quick dismissal. "No, Mummy, that's not quite what I had in mind. A more _lasting_ solution would be for the best, don't you think?"

Virginia Holmes steepled long, graceful fingers under her chin, thinking hard. "Hmm. Well, it _is_ Christmas soon. Shall I buy you a dog? Or a rabbit, perhaps?"

Mycroft's mind flashed immediately to chattering, annoying Peter Rabbit from his kindergarten classroom, and couldn't quite stop himself from grimacing. "_Definitely_ not," he replied.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're looking for, darling. I want to help you, of course I do, but I will need more data. What do you have in mind, Mycroft?"

Mycroft locked his big green eyes on his mother and said quite plainly, "I would _like_ a sibling."

Virginia Holmes smiled at Mycroft, though it was a sad smile. She took her son's hand in both of her own, and said kindly, "Oh, darling child. I'm sorry you're so lonely, and I know how much you would love a sibling. But I just don't think your father and I could give you one. He is away so often, you see, and I—I'm not as young as I used to be. I wouldn't have the energy to raise another stubborn little Holmes child." She giggled and kissed her son's hand gently. "No, I think it's _perfect_ just the way it is—three Holmeses in all the world." She began to go on again about Mycroft selecting a pet, but the small ginger Holmes had stopped listening.

He already knew his mother didn't want another child, the same way he could tell that she didn't love Father very much, and could read the guilt over Mycroft's loneliness in her droopy, sad eyes. But Mycroft _also_ knew that he could reverse this mindset of hers. After all, he'd been practicing on his classmates for the last three years, honing his skills in manipulation, ready for just such a task—_he was going to change his mother's mind._ With a simple string of words and a concentrated look into her eyes, he was going to push his desires into her head and _make_ her give him what he wanted.

It had taken him a while to suss out exactly how to work his unique ability. Many trials and errors had gone into discovering the three simple steps it required:

Step one; lock gazes with the victim. This induced in the victim a trance-like state that could be easily broken if Mycroft so much as blinked.

Step two; attach a particular emotion onto a statement or command. This part was the meat and potatoes of his gift—without emotion, his words were just a sentence, powerless and cheap. It was also the part that was the trickiest for Mycroft to master, since emotions in general were not his strong suit. Moreover, the statement had to be said out loud; though Mycroft maintained hopes that in the future it could remain a silent thought.

Step three; transfer the thought (with attached sentimentality) into the victim's mind, using the eyes as doorways into the body. This step was hard to describe, and harder to perform. There was a physicality to it that had to occur, a material transfer of intent that could be felt and experienced by the victim. This step took Mycroft the longest to discover—before then, his gift had often failed him, causing him all sorts of grief when the victim would come out of their reverie and demand to know what he was playing at.

It was easiest with children, who were generally very impressionable and changeable. Adults were trickier. They were much less fond of change, had more stubbornness and inflexibility. Mycroft often found their iron wills simply too strong for his influence—he had to resort back to data gathering and craftiness to achieve his goals.

But his mother was sad and unhappy, and Mycroft knew her will would melt like butter under his fingertips. Together, with these three steps, Mycroft knew he could get whatever he wanted from her, whenever it suited him to have it. And today … well, today Mycroft wanted a sibling.

Virginia Holmes was startled into silence when Mycroft climbed up onto the settee with her, gently reaching for her face with his two smaller hands and guiding it to look straight into his eyes.

"Mycroft, darling, what's—"

"Mummy," Mycroft said, enunciating very sharply, never allowing himself to blink even once. "You are very lonely. The house is too quiet and sad. You should very much like another child to fill up the empty spaces." As he was speaking, Mycroft took every lonely thought he had ever had in the last four months and bundled them up tight in his chest, creating a dense ball of negativity that nearly choked him with its intensity. Contained within that ball was a tiny point of light—Mycroft's hope for a new baby and the gregarious future it would bring him. It travelled up through his throat and out of his mouth, whereupon he pushed it, along with his words, into the eyes and mind of his mother.

Virginia's pupils dilated and she gave a little gasp as all that sentiment hit her at once. Her gaze stayed locked on her son's, who watched as her mind sorted through all the information, categorized it, and assimilated it into her own schema (overriding where necessary.) He waited until her pupils contracted again before he finally blinked and pulled away, moving off the settee and standing in front of her as if the whole episode had not occurred.

Virginia blinked, looking confused, and met Mycroft's gaze.

"Yes, Mummy? What were you saying?" Mycroft inquired politely.

Virginia blinked again, and then a wide smile broke out upon her face, lighting up her eyes in a way Mycroft hadn't seen a smile of hers do in a long time. "Mycroft, darling, that is a_wonderful_ idea. I am very lonely, and this house is too quiet and sad. I would very much like another child to fill up the empty spaces."

She informed Siger Holmes of her desire that very evening, with Mycroft sitting at the end of the table trying not to look too pleased with himself. Three weeks later, he was given a kitten for Christmas, whom he named Peter in a fit of good-humored nostalgia. Nine months later, he was given a baby brother, whom his parents named Sherlock.

And Mycroft adored the both of them.

* * *

The years that followed were some of the brightest of Mycroft's life. He had a curious, wonderful little brother whom he loved dearly. He had the nanny again, whenever he wanted her. He had Peter to curl up with on cold nights, and Sherlock too when he was older. His strict, overbearing Father was away on business more than ever. The only downside was his mother's declining health, after the birth of Sherlock. But still, the overwhelming positives were enough that Mycroft didn't feel too guilty about that.

His abilities were stronger than ever. At the start of his 4th year, he'd managed to make the entire school board decide that nine-year-olds should have student-run officer elections and government. (Mycroft of course was elected class president.) By the end of 4th year he'd managed to purposefully move a pen from one side of his dining room table to the other, without having to touch it at all.

He felt powerful. He felt untouchable. He began to have dreams of a brilliant life in politics, a life where he made the rules; became the unseen, omnipotent force driving all the prominent political figures. A god amongst regular men.

* * *

And then, when he is eleven, Mycroft's perfect world—the perfect vision he had of himself—literally comes crashing down in his back garden in the form of a man claiming to be a wizard.


	2. Dubiety

It all started on a particularly hot day in July, just after his little brother's fourth birthday. Mycroft, Sherlock, and the nanny were out in the gardens, under the shade of a large English oak, when there was a loud **_CRACK_** from somewhere nearby, almost like gunfire. The nanny shrieked and Sherlock began to cry, but Mycroft just stood up and turned his head in the direction of the noise, vigilant against threats.

He'd been expecting a lot of things. A poacher with a rifle, a burglar perhaps—what he was_not_ expecting was a doddering old man in an (admittedly very well put-together) Merlin costume, complete with long beard and flowing indigo robes.

The nanny was too startled to speak, but Mycroft didn't hesitate to address the stranger. "Sir, I don't suppose you realize that you are _trespassing_ on Holmes property," he called coldly, taking a step in front of his younger brother to shield him from this madman. He prepared his ability, locking eyes with the stranger and infusing his words with an intense feeling of unwelcome. "Please leave at once."

The old man merely smiled serenely, drifting forward with more grace than his age would suggest and standing a few meters away from the family. "Good afternoon, Mycroft Holmes. You are just the boy I was hoping to see," the stranger said cheerfully.

Mycroft was thrown. Why hadn't his ability worked? "What? Who are you? How do you know my name?"

"Perhaps we should have this conversation indoors, with your parents present. Would you be so kind as to invite me in?"

There was something about this man … Mycroft couldn't get any readings off of him—it's not that he didn't _see _anything, just that he couldn't _understand_ any of it. What strange substance had dotted his sleeve? There were ink stains on his fingers and callouses on his fingers that told Mycroft the man spent most of his time at a desk—but the ink was not the consistency of a regular biro. It was like India ink, dark and smudgy. Definitely a professor, perhaps of art? Mycroft could see a long polished stick of wood just inside the man's sleeve—what was its purpose? It was too long to be an expensive writing utensil, but too short to be a cane or walking stick. And why in the sleeve? It was a terribly odd place to have a pocket.

Of course, Mycroft had these thoughts within the span of a single second. In the next second, he decided that he was terribly intrigued, so Mycroft soon found himself sat on the sofa with his mother and Sherlock, despite his better judgment. His mother held Sherlock in her arms, and his father idled by the mantle, a deep frown etched across his face. The stranger sat in a squashy armchair directly across from Mycroft, still smiling brightly as if the room _wasn't_incredibly tense.

"Who did you say you were, again?" Mr. Holmes grunted from the mantle, very disapproving of this alien man in a fancy dressing gown in his living room.

"I don't believe I have said at all. I am Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts," the old man introduced with a flourish. "Wonderfully pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes."

"Oh, Headmaster? You represent a boarding school, then?" His mother asked gently, trying keeping the vibrant ball of energy that is four-year-old Sherlock stifled.

"Hogwarts?" Asked his father. "What kind of name is _that_ for a school? A second-rate establishment, no doubt." He harrumphed.

"Shh," Virginia chastised. She covered Sherlock's mouth, before he could spit out the insult that was no doubt on his tongue.

Dumbledore turned to Siger. "My dear man, Hogwarts is a very _special_ school, the only of its kind in all of Briton. And your son happens to be a very special boy. I am here to offer him a place in our school."

The word 'special' changed Siger's tune almost immediately. "Oh, you are a school for academically gifted children! Then, of course you noticed my son, there isn't a smarter child in all of London," he boasted. Mycroft found himself rather irritated by his father's superiority, as if he could take all the credit for Mycroft's intelligence. After all, when had his father been home long enough to do any sort of parenting? _'You don't even know me,'_ he thought in his father's direction, but remained silent.

"A school for gifted children we are indeed, Mr. Holmes—however, the qualifying factors Mycroft possess lie not in academic prowess, (thought that will surely take him far in our establishment), but in magical ability. For Hogwarts is a school for Witchcraft and Wizardry."

The reaction is immediate, as all the grudging respect that had been forming in Siger Holmes's mind for this Headmaster Double-door dissipates in an explosion of outrage. "WHAT NONSENSE IS THIS?" He roared, eyes widening and face reddening in rage. "HOW DARE YOU COME INTO MY HOME AND SPOUT SUCH NONSENSE, I SHALL CALL THE POLICE! … WHAT UTTER RUBBISH … FRAUDULENT REPRESENTATION …" He went on and on.

Mycroft had initially turned up his nose at the so-called Professor's words, glad _somebody_ was verbally eviscerating the madman—but Dumbledore's reaction to his father's ranting was puzzling, and he couldn't help being intrigued. He smiled politely throughout his father's threats and insults, and waited for him to finish before he said gently, "This will be a long conversation; would anyone like some tea?"

And then he took the long, polished piece of wood out of his sleeve pocket, gave it a funny sort of wave—

And an entire tea set, complete with creamer and sugar bowl, blinked into existence on the coffee table.

Silence descended upon the room so suddenly, it was like all the sounds had been sucked out of the air.

"One lump or two?"

* * *

Half an hour later, Siger Holmes had paced a track in front of the fireplace, while Virginia has gone quiet—as has Sherlock, but only under threat of banishment from the room and the proceedings. Even so, his mother's hand was still poised in his bird-nest hair, ready to strike and cover his mouth to keep the rude comments from tumbling out and insulting their guest, no matter how odd said guest was.

Mycroft was also silent. He listened to the old man describe a secret, hidden world with its own underground government; and a magic school hidden away in the Scottish Highlands, unable to be charted on a map unless you knew exactly where it was. He listened, and listened, and all the while thought only one thought: poppycock.

It wasn't true. It couldn't be. Despite the tiny, miniscule part of him that was disgustingly hopeful about the sincerity of the man's words, the logical side of Mycroft (by which is meant most of Mycroft) could not accept the Headmaster's earlier demonstration with the tea set as irrefutable proof of magic's existence. There had been too many unsavory variables at the time to suggest anything more than an elaborate parlour trick. Mycroft himself had five possible explanations as to how the old man did it.

Discreetly, he first checked his pulse, and then sniffed the teacup.

… Okay, make those three ideas.

He toed off his oxfords, and gently brushed the underside of the coffee table with his sock feet.

… One idea?

Giving up for the moment, Mycroft glared at Dumbledore, who was busy repeating himself (for the sixth or seventh time) to Siger Holmes. If the man was a liar, he was certainly a masterful one. Mycroft could detect no hint of any of the usual tells, the little ticks of behavior that usually betrayed a liar. In fact, his body language had not changed from a graceful, kindly patience since Mycroft had met him in the back garden. It was somehow extremely irritating.

"Now, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, before we proceed any further I would like an opportunity to speak to the boy alone," Dumbledore said lightly, yet still in a tone that seemed to brook no argument. "We shan't be long. Dear boy, if you would be so kind …?"

Though Mycroft wasn't really in the habit of seeking permission for his own actions, he did look to his father for acquiescence in this case. His father's face had gone a bit peaky and his eyes were distant and reflective, thoughts obviously a whirlwind of activity as he worked through the words of the last half-hour.

"Go ahead, dear," his mother said to Mycroft, looking between her husband and her son. "I think perhaps your father needs a moment to collect himself, anyway."

So Mycroft obediently got up from his seat and walked with the Headmaster over to the patio doors, the old man clearly leading the way back to the gardens where they'd first met. They go for a stroll around the garden, Mycroft stiff-backed and frowning and Dumbledore sure-footed and whistling.

They had walked halfway around the garden path before Mycroft planted his feet and steeled his nerves, tired of waiting and listening to that odd, tuneless whistling. Dumbledore stopped as well, smiling with a polite confusion that was clearly manufactured for Mycroft's benefit.

"So, Mr. Dumbledore, you say that you're a … wizard," Mycroft began distastefully, crossing his lanky arms over his boyish chest with as much haughtiness as he could muster. "I could say I appreciate the afternoon story; but that, of course, would also be untrue. You have picked the wrong family to scam; the Holmes's are of a scientific mind, sir. We find no delight in make-believe."

The bearded man was still smiling, taking in his surroundings with a polite interest. Mycroft found it difficult to keep composure when he said, "Yes, this is a nice spot. Let us sit down, shall we?"

Mycroft grit his teeth. "I do not believe you heard me, sir. There is nothing to talk about. I won't be hoodwinked by some old codger in costume!" He grew even less calm as the man simply ignored him, turning from the garden path to examine one of the numerous rosebushes along the wall. "Where do you even intend to sit? There are no benches here!"

Dumbledore took his long, polished stick out of his sleeve pocket, and turned to grin cheekily at the ginger boy. "My dear boy, when life provides little in the way of resources, we must learn to make them for ourselves."

He drew a complicated series of shapes over the rosebush, and it turned into a squashy, rose-patterned armchair. Just in time, too, since Mycroft felt his knees go to water and he all but fell into it gracelessly.

He struggled for breath, eyes gone wide as his stubby fingers brushed over the petal-soft fabric that had most definitively been a plant two seconds ago. There were no unsavory variables this time. There was no instantaneous fabrication, lost by one mistimed blink—Mycroft hadseen the edges of the bush condense together in a solid form, the three-dimensional blooms flattening into a shaded, two-dimensional image stretched over its shape.

If he had had any lingering doubts about magic after witnessing that display, then looking up to see Dumbledore literally drawing another chair into the air between them would have adequately squashed them.

The last shimmering line drawn, the wing-backed chair suddenly gained dimension and thudded heavily onto the stone ground before him. The old man settled into it with a pleased noise, tucking his stick away.

"It's … true," Mycroft whispered; a statement, not a question. "You're a wizard. You really can do magic."

Dumbledore smiled, placing a gentle hand on Mycroft's own in support. "And so will you, and rather admirably I predict, once you take the education I am offering you."

Suddenly, without warning, fireworks of excitement burst in Mycroft's chest cavity, and he grinned like an absolute fool before he could contain himself. "I'm a wizard!" He exclaimed, the taste of it exotic but no less savory on his tongue.

Dumbledore smiled wider. "Now at last we find ourselves on the same broom, dear boy. Let us fly forward with a single-minded determination to be in before the tea gets terribly cold, shall we? After all, there is nothing quite as upsetting in this world as cold tea."

Mycroft was too stunned and excited to speak, which was for the best anyway since he had no idea how to respond to that odd declaration. Flying on brooms? Was that an actual thing that happened? Good Lord, he was out of his depth. How exciting!

Eyes bright, fingers clenched on the arms of the rose-sofa, he expelled a flurry of questions he could no longer keep contained for fear of bursting. "What is that stick in your pocket? Does it contain your magic, or simply channel it? Will I be receiving one? How big is Hogwarts? How many students attend? Are there many other wizards out there? Where is your central government located? How many—"

"Ah, to be so young and inquisitive ... it is the fallacy of the aged to believe only in their own stagnant knowledge and dismiss the youthful, who see the Earth in new ways. To know is never the last stop in the journey for knowledge, for it is a journey without end."

Mycroft reigned in his excitement, correcting his posture and feeling properly chastised, though he wasn't quite sure why. "Yes, sir." He certainly could not fathom ever stopping his pursuit of magical knowledge—not now, that he knew it existed. But suddenly, thinking upon all those moments when he had 'done magic' and compared them to what this powerful wizard had done—it didn't seem like enough. Moving pens and making books float seemed leagues behind turning multi-cellular life forms into furniture. What if he didn't have it in him?

Somehow, even though Mycroft had remained completely in control of his expression, Dumbledore still knew his sudden doubt. The old man smiled, and his blue eyes seemed to twinkle. "All that is needed to light an inferno is a single spark, dear boy. You needn't doubt yourself."

Mycroft became a bit in awe of the man, remembering that only ten minutes prior he'd thought Dumbledore a crackpot old fool. He wondered how he could have thought so, even without the facts—that spark of brilliance in the wizard's eyes could not be missed. "I won't, sir," Mycroft began earnestly, feeling an overwhelming urge not to disappoint the man, ever. "I will take the education you are offering me gratefully, Headmaster, and I will study very hard!"

Dumbledore smiled wider, warmth filling his bright blue eyes. "I am glad, my boy. So will, I expect, the Office of Underage Magic. They've been almost constantly Peppered-Up since you were a small boy, and will be glad to see your wild magic suitable restrained," he whispered mischievously, with a wink.

After a moment (in which Mycroft was trying to figure out the particular significance of "peppered-up") the headmaster's expression became somber. "I admit that part of the reason I brought you out here alone was to try and convince you away from the influence of your parents. It was very important that you agree to come to Hogwarts. Magic is a wild thing, you see, and can be quite dangerous to those witches and wizards who remain untrained. Under normal circumstances, we do take the matter of choice into consideration … but in your case I wouldn't have accepted no for an answer."

Mycroft was surprised. After all, he'd been nervous that he didn't have enough magic, and now Dumbledore was implying that he was some sort of special case? "What makes me so different from usual prospective wizards?"

Dumbledore crossed one leg over the other and leaned forward, giving Mycroft an assessing stare. "You are a unique child, aren't you Mr. Holmes? A wizard found in a family with not a single drop of magical blood to be found anywhere on his (very extensive) family tree. And if that weren't rare enough, to also possess a Silver Tongue ... you will be unique even in the wizarding world."

" … a Silver Tongue?" _Noun. A tendency to be eloquent and persuasive when speaking._ Surely Mycroft was indeed those things, but why would Dumbledore imply that wizards generally weren't? Especially when the old man himself was so well-expressed?

Dumbledore's gaze was piercing over his half-moon spectacles. Mycroft felt lost and tense. "It is the power of compulsion, my dear boy. It is a dangerous thing; the ability to take away the free will of others, to plant a seed of suggestion and let it grow as a foreign invader in a benign mind. I could not allow you to refuse our training because you are in need of it more than the others, especially when it comes to the rights and wrongs of magic. We do not take kindly to the magical manipulation of thought and will."

Mycroft swallowed. His mind travelled back over the last seven years, to every moment when he had mentally strong-armed the people around him in order to get his way—only to find it impossible, the moments to frequent to count. His classmates, his teachers, his own Mummy … anyone who had made themselves even the slightest annoyance had been dealt with. Before now, he'd never thought of it as something shady, something evil. He had assumed it was just another manifestation of his magic, something any wizard could do. It made his stomach turn. Had he been doing some taboo form of dark magic this whole time?

Dumbledore knew his train of thought, as he'd known during this whole encounter. "Things are not as black and white as so, Mr. Holmes. It isa gift, but one that could turn into a curse if you do not exercise caution. It will have its good uses in the future, but until you learn the full implication of your ability I suggest you refrain," he said, not unkindly. Likely he knew just how much Mycroft relied on the ability. Mycroft felt vaguely ashamed of his actions for the past few years—and wasn't that something? He had been powerful, in his own mind. How quickly a King could be dethroned and made the Fool.

"Yes sir," he mumbled.

Dumbledore patted his hand, and then stood up. "Good. Now that that's settled, let's go back and tie up the loose ends, shall we?" He pulled out his magical stick, vanished the chair and transfigured the sofa back into a rose bush, right out from underneath Mycroft. The redhead staggered upwards in surprise, and then couldn't help but chuckle along with the Headmaster, a pleasant flush on his cheeks. His negative emotions quickly faded out of mind.

Together, young and old wizard walked side-by-side back to the house. Mycroft's father was still angry and upset, but had been tempered somewhat by his wife, who smiled at Dumbledore and Mycroft as they came back in through the patio doors. Sherlock was nowhere in sight, no doubt released back into the wild.

"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Mycroft has accepted his enrollment; happy news indeed! Here," he added, pulling out a letter on rich parchment paper, written in green ink. It was addressed to Mycroft, but he put it in Virginia's hand. "That is his acceptance letter. It will have all the necessary details on how to prepare Mycroft for the new school term."

Siger ripped it from his wife's hand and tore into it messily. "You may have somehow convinced my impressionable son, but I have the final say in this house! If I decide he is not going, then he is not going!" His eyes scanned the several documents wildly, muttering to himself. "Wizardry! Humph. Cauldrons, wands, spellbooks, what nonsense—what is this? I'll not have **toads** in this house!"

Mycroft eyed the letter a bit longingly, wanting very much to read it. Virginia stood up and approached Dumbledore with her hand extended. Like a perfect gentleman of upbringing, Dumbledore brought the back of it to his lips.

"Mr. Dumbledore, if my son trusts what you say, then so do I, no matter how unbelievable! He is an extraordinary child, you know—and somehow, once the shock of it wore off, it didn't really surprise me that he's even more extraordinary than I thought. I imagine he will always surprise me, he and his brother both," she sighed wearily, but with pride.

Mycroft looked upon his mother in awe. In the back of his mind, guilt and shame again rose up at the memory of so callously controlling her with his Silver Tongue. Never again, he vowed silently.

Dumbledore joined her in a smile. "Indeed. I look forward to his surprises at Hogwarts. Term begins on September the 1st. His train will leave from King's Cross; it's all in the letter. Finally, there is the small matter of his school things—someone will arrive promptly at seven o'clock on August the third to take Mycroft to purchase them," Dumbledore said. "You can hash out the particulars when this person arrives. I do apologize, but I'm afraid I must away—one more family to visit, you know!" He kissed Virginia's hand again, wisely decided to only nod courteously to Siger without approaching him—and then turned to Mycroft.

"Dear boy, it has been a pleasure. I shall see you on the First of September."

And so, saying his goodbyes, Dumbledore strode back out of the patio and out of sight.

After his departure, there was a moment of silence (punctuated only by the occasional displeased murmur of Siger) when Mycroft was so emotionally drained he had to concentrate on making his legs hold him up. He couldn't believe magic existed. He couldn't believe a wizard visited him. He couldn't believe that he was going to become a wizard too, that his mother was trusting in his judgment and supporting his decision.

Her words echoed through his head: 'I imagine he will always surprise me, he and his brother both.'

—And suddenly he is off like a rocket, heedless of his mother's surprised cries, chasing after the old Headmaster.

"Mr. Dumbledore, wait!"

Dumbledore was halfway down the garden path, but turned around instantly at Mycroft's shout. The redhead distantly noted that he didn't look surprised to see him at all. "Yes, dear boy?"

"Will ... will my brother get to go too? In the future, I mean. I … he is very important to me. I should like to always be able to watch over him."

Dumbledore smiled at him with incredible fondness, and then his expression turned thoughtful. "I believe the question you are truly asking me is whether or not your brother has magic in him." His gaze pierced Mycroft over the top of his spectacles, like it had in the garden. "I am afraid I cannot answer. It is not for you to know, yet." Mycroft tried not to look too disappointed.

Dumbledore surprised him, then, by walking over and putting a friendly hand to his shoulder. He was not smiling. "Mycroft. Whether or not he has magic I cannot tell. What I do see is that you both are destined to walk down different paths. Seven years, after all, is quite a large gap."

Mycroft's heart beat in his throat. What did that mean, exactly? Helpless, he simply replied, "Yes ... I suppose it is."

Dumbledore sighed a little flippantly, his features smoothing. "Still, there is no love quite like the one between siblings. Cherish it, dear child." His gaze was distant for one moment, two—then he clapped Mycroft heartily on the back. "Well, I'll see you soon. Enjoy the rest of your summer!" He winked, turned on the spot, and was gone.


	3. Visitant

Mycroft woke up early on August the 3rd, barely able to contain his excitement for the day ahead. _Finally,_ he was going to take his first real step into the Wizarding World, the world that he had only heard second-hand about, and never seen for himself. Keeping the faith was one thing, sure, but it got harder the longer he had to do it. He yearned for tangible evidence; to be able to see and touch and experience the world he dreamed about at night. And today he would, for today was the day he was going to London to shop for his school things. To a place called Diagon Alley.

Peter the cat was sleeping in his preferred place above Mycroft's head. Mycroft was too excited to resist waking him up for a chat. He lifted the cat up into the air from behind his front legs and gave him a little twirl. Peter yowled, making his displeasure clearly known.

_What are you doing, stupid human._

"Today's the day, Peter! I'm officially going to become a wizard."

_I cannot fully express how much I do not care about this. Put me down at once._

"Aren't you even a little happy for me, Peter?"

_I will claw you._

Mycroft acquiesced, putting the cat down. He flew through his morning routine, blood singing in his ears with excitement, and went downstairs to the breakfast nook only to find Sherlock awake and waiting for him.

He wasn't even remotely surprised. If there was one person who could possibly be more excited for their trip than Mycroft, it was Sherlock.

Sherlock had been incredibly acidic about the whole 'Dumbledore' event, calling Mycroft a fool and Dumbledore names that by all means a four-year-old shouldn't know. "There's no such thing as magic," he had said, his baby teeth bared and high child's voice wavering. "You awre being un-science-tific!"

But then Mycroft had told him everything; from the first time he'd spoken to an animal to the times objects had behaved strangely in his presence. He was open and honest with Sherlock in a way he had never been before with any other person. The only tongue he held was of the Silver variety—Sherlock didn't need to know that the only reason he existed was because Mycroft had compelled their mother into it.

He told him his first-hand account of what Dumbledore was capable of from their tete-a-tete in the garden, and by the time his narration was over Sherlock had been wide-eyed and flabbergasted.

"Did he weally do those things, Mycwoft? Awe you telling the twuth?"

"Holmes' never tell lies, Sherlock. And really, we must do something about your R's."

After that, Sherlock had been glued to Mycroft's side, constantly nattering on about magic and looking at Mycroft like the sun rose and set upon him. To be so utterly adored by another human being was a feeling Mycroft had never experienced before, and he instantly knew he never wanted to be without it. Sometimes at night, with Sherlock curled up next to him in his bed, Dumbledore's words ran through his head: 'You are destined to walk down different paths …' But the words made his chest hurt, so he never allowed himself to linger on it. Dumbledore couldn't be right, anyway. As brothers and friends, the Holmes children were too close. Nothing could break their bond.

Mycroft sat down at the small table next to Sherlock, and one of the maids put a plate of eggs benedict in front of him. "Good morning, Sherlock," he greeted.

"Mycwoft, when is the new wizawd coming to pick us up?" Sherlock demanded without preamble, practically vibrating in his seat with energy.

Mycroft had already told Sherlock countless times, so he did not indulge his brother's impatience by repeating himself. Instead, he gently swallowed a bit of egg and said, "Sherlock, use your R's."

His little brother looked highly offended. "I tw—twrr … _try,"_ he said strenuously, crossing his arms and slipping into a mini-sulk. As much as a highly eager child could sulk, anyway.

"No you don't," Mycroft argued, "Or you would have mastered it by now. You have deemed it irrelevant and not worth your time, don't pretend you haven't. But that is okay. Today, everything is okay. Today I'm going to become a wizard!"

Sherlock grinned from ear-to-ear, and Mycroft's smile was also quite large. "I am going to see weal magic today!" He cried, "Finally!"

After breakfast, Mycroft went out to sit in the foyer to wait for the wizard, Sherlock at his heels. "Do you think I will be a wizawd too someday?" It wasn't the first time Sherlock had asked that question, by any means. But this particular reassurance was important to him, so Mycroft didn't have any qualms repeating himself in this instance.

"Oh, I think there's a good chance of it, don't you?"

Sherlock looked terribly pleased with himself. Mycroft just smiled fondly.

Suddenly, their mother's voice sounded from the sitting room. "Mycroft, Sherlock, please don't linger in the hallway. Come in here."

The two brothers went into the sitting room, each giving their Mummy a polite 'Good Morning,' as was proper. Virginia Holmes was resplendent as ever, wearing a tasteful yet understated white dress with her long dark hair twisted artfully in an updo.

"I have something for you, Mycroft," she began, undoing the clasp on her purse. She took out a roll of large bills, and Mycroft's eyes widened in shock.

"Mummy, that is too much!"

"Nonsense, dear. You need school supplies, don't you? So you shall have the best school supplies, as befitting a Holmes," she said loftily. "This is also to ensure plenty of spare pounds for the school year, in case of emergencies." She sniffed delicately. "You'll be so far away, I won't be able to help you quickly if you get into trouble."

"But Mummy, surely—"

"Hush, Mycroft. This is all I can do for you, so let me do it."

Mycroft sighed, and took the bills from his mother's hands. "Yes Mummy. Thank you very much." He slipped them in his wallet.

Virginia then took a few minutes to fuss over Sherlock, murmuring softly to him as she straightened his clothes and brushed her fingers through his unruly hair. Mycroft took that time to focus his acute green eyes on her form. Her face was careworn, and though her makeup was impeccable he could still see traces of the dark circles beneath her tired hazel eyes.

"Play me your scales and arpeggios, Sherlock."

"Okay, Mummy."

He felt a pang of guilt at the signs of yet another sleepless night on his mother. She had been withdrawn and burdened lately, and it was all his fault.

**[CM: Do re mi fa sol fa mi re do mi sol mi do …]**

His father had been frighteningly ill-tempered the weeks following Dumbledore's visit, and he and Virginia had gotten into many fights over the question of Mycroft's future. Siger had refused to believe in wizards and magic, convinced that Dumbledore was nothing more than a conartist who wanted a piece of the Holmes fortune (nevermind that Hogwarts had no tuition, that wasn't the point—)

"He should be attending a proper public school, Virginia—not traipsing off to Scotland at the whim of some senile old man! What future is there for Mycroft at a school no one has heard of? It is a shameful waste of his potential!"

Virginia never raised her voice during their fights, but stood steadfast and resolute nonetheless. "I trust in our son, Siger. He is more brilliant than we can ever imagine. If he believes in Dumbledore, then so will I. If he wants to go to Hogwarts, then I shall not deny him."

The more they fought, the angrier Siger became. He grew more violent, invading Mycroft's room to procure his Hogwarts acceptance letter, which he then burned (Mycroft had already memorized it, fortunately, and was able to transcribe it perfectly down to the last potion ingredient). He swept his arm across the dinner table and broke many china dishes during an altercation with Virginia at supper. He ignored Mycroft's existence, except to glare at him with utter disgust—but the final straw was when he struck Sherlock across the face for spilling a bit of tea over the desk in the study.

"Father, that's enough!" Mycroft had shouted, leaping to his feet. "Just stop! If you're angry with me, be angry with me! Leave Sherlock and Mummy out of it!"

Sherlock, tearful and clutching his stinging cheek, scurried out of the study, pausing when Mycroft didn't follow—but Mycroft just shook his head. He wouldn't flee, not this time. Enough was enough. The fight between father and eldest son was long overdue.

**[EM: Do re mi fa sol fa mi re do mi sol mi do ...]**

Siger had wasted no time. "Explain yourself to me, boy. What is going through your head? You have so much potential—why so willing to waste it on a fairytale? It's not rational or logical. It's not like you!"

A fury that had been building up for many weeks suddenly burst out of Mycroft in a fireworks display of temper. "How would you know what was like me and what wasn't?! You've never been around long enough to notice!"

"Don't you dare raise your voice to me, boy."

"I'll dare! I'll dare so long as you dare to raise your hand against Sherlock."

Siger's face flushed an angry red, and he snarled at his son. "MAGIC IS NOT REAL! HOGWARTS IS **NOT REAL!** YOU ARE DELUSIONAL AND I SHOUD SHIP YOU OFF TO A LOONY BIN, YOU AND YOUR FOOL OF A MOTHER—"

Mycroft's fist clenched. He was so angry … and the whole room seemed to vibrate with his fury. And it _actually_ _was,_ Mycroft distantly realized—the books on the shelves and all the hangings on the walls were shaking as if they were in the midst of an earthquake. Siger was startled out of his rage as books began falling to the floor, glancing around in alarm and steadying himself on the desk.

"What's … is this an … earthquake?"

Still the fury coursed through Mycroft's body, and still more violently the room had shook. All the fights, all Mummy's quiet tears … Mycroft was going to put an end to it. Show him, a voice in the back of his mind had urged, and Mycroft felt the pull of some unknown force within him, like a dog pulling at an unwanted leash. Show him he is wrong. Prove your power. Make him see.

Curious—but still so angry, so angry—Mycroft prodded at that force.

And suddenly, the room wasn't just shaking. The books were not just falling. They were _levitating,_ rising up from the ground like so many paper ghosts, turning their sharp corners towards Siger in threatening dislpays.

Siger's face drained of colour, and he staggered back several paces. "What—w-what—"

"I am not delusional, Father," Mycroft growled, his voice lower than it had ever sounded before. "**You are.** You are, to not see the truth that is right in front of you."

Siger's horrified eyes turned to his son. "You …? Are you—?"

"Yes, Father. I am the one doing this. I have magic! I am the one who has been telling you the truth this whole time—do you believe me _now?"_

He let the books fall back to the floor, his point made. They fell in flurries, and for a few moments there was no sound in the room but the fluttering of many pages. Then, when the last book had fallen, Mycroft said, "So you see, I will go to Hogwarts, and there is literally _nothing_ you can do to stop me."

Siger was breathing hard, staring at the books like they would sprout fangs and attack him. When he seemed convinced they wouldn't move again, he finally stood up from where he had fallen against the back wall and turned back to his son.

He stared. Mycroft had never seen his Father, or indeed anybody, look at him like that before. He felt like he was a stranger—no, worse than that. He felt like he was a creature, something inhuman. There was astonishment in Siger's eyes, but it was the fear there that turned Mycroft's stomach. He never wanted to be looked at like that again.

Siger opened his mouth, then thought better of it and closed it again. He was still pale and his hands shook. He paced, movements jerky, only to stop dead and stare at Mycroft again with that awful expression on his face.

"Say something, Father." Mycroft's anger had drained with the rest of his energy at his little temper tantrum, leaving him feel exhausted and resigned.

"… You're a _freak_ and an abomination. There is no way I could have sired you—you are not my son."

"Father! You can't mean that! Father, _wait!"_

Without a further word, Siger turned around and left the room, leaving his son standing in the wrecked room.

That night, Mycroft and Sherlock huddled together under the covers as they heard shouting downstairs, the crashes of objects being thrown, and the sound of their mother sobbing.

By morning, Siger Holmes had long since gone.

**[FM: Do re mi fa sol fa mi re do mi sol mi do …]**

"Mycroft, my darling."

His mother's voice startled Mycroft out of his reverie, and he looked up to see her looking at him with sad eyes. She placed a gentle hand over his cheek in a gentle caress, and smiled adoringly at him. "Don't put the weight of the world on your shoulders. Today is a happy day."

Mycroft closed his eyes and put his hand over his mother's. "Mummy …"

Abruptly there came a loud bout of knocking on the front door. Sherlock froze, eyes wide, and then he threw down his violin in excitement. "Yes! They awe here!" Mycroft swiftly followed suit, leaping to his feet and striding briskly out to the front door.

The wizard was still knocking on his door, bellowing "HELLOO! ANYBODY HOME?" Mycroft could tell he was male, early forties, with a Bristol accent. There was another voice beside his, very young, hissing in embarrassment.

"Dad! Shut it! You're disturbing the whole neighborhood! Look, they have one o' them ringers for the door. Press that li'l circle there!"

"Oh, I see!"

And then, the loud knocking turned into loud, successive rings of their booming doorbell as the wizard stabbed the button repeatedly. Sherlock clapped hands over his ears, looking incredulous.

Wincing, Mycroft hurriedly threw open the door. "Yes! Yes, we're here, _please_ stop."

The wizard on their front porch looked contrite. He was tall, with dark hair peppered with gray, and stubble on his cheeks and chin. His eyes were a mahogany brown, and they crinkled as he smiled down at Mycroft. What stuck out the most about him, however, was his attire—he wasn't wearing robes like Dumbledore had been, but Mycroft almost wished he were.

A suit jacket over a plaid jumper, checkered trousers and bright yellow Wellingtons … and this was the man Dumbledore had trusted with Mycroft and his family? Perhaps they were better off finding their own way to the Wizarding World.

"Hello there," the man said cheerfully, completely unaware that he was a walking eyesore. "Are you Mycroft?"

"What awe you weawing?" Sherlock gasped out in horror, coming to stand next to his brother. "You look like a homeless perwson." He seemed to think about what he said then, and his horror turned to extreme interest. "Homeless people awe intewesting."

The man looked delighted to see the curly-headed child, though Mycroft noticed that he ignored Sherlock's rude question. "Ah, hello little fella! Ain't you as cute as a Jarvey*?" He ignored Sherlock's indignant sputtering.

"Dad …" a younger voice groaned, and a boy about Mycroft's age stepped out from behind the strange wizard. Mycroft turned to him, and his eyebrows rose in clear interest. The boy had short hair like his father, but his was actually bright silver in colour. Mycroft recognized it as a natural pigmentation; the tousled strands didn't have the right texture to suggest a dye-job. Mycroft wondered if it was a strange manifestation of the boy's magic.

The young wizard grinned toothily at Mycroft and stuck out a thumb to indicate the older wizard next to him. "Sorry 'bout him. He don't get out in the Muggle world much. The name's Gregory Lestrade, nice ta meet ya!" He stuck out his hand.

Mycroft assessed the boy. Friendly, easy-going, tendency towards casualty. He looked normal, in jeans and a soft blue button-down. "Mycroft Holmes." He took the proffered hand.

"Well, Mycroft," said the older Lestrade, as his son vigorously shook the ginger's hand, "We're here ta take you and yer folks to Diagon Alley! Are you ready to go…?"

Mycroft didn't even hesitate. "Yes."

* * *

***From Fantastic Beasts & Where to Find Them: "[The Jarvey] resembles an overgrown ferret in most respects, except for the fact that it can talk. [It] tends to confine itself to short (and often rude) phrases in an almost constant stream […]".**


	4. Acculteration

After introductions and a spot of tea, the Lestrades and Holmeses all stood outside on the front walk, ready for departure—with one notable exception.

"Now, you be good for the Lestrades, Sherlock. I don't want to hear one negative thing about your behaviour, do you understand?"

"Yes, Mummy."

"Mycroft, dear, you have the money I gave you?"

"Yes. Are you positive you won't come with us?" Mycroft's words were deliberately precise, and stated quite calmly—which usually meant he was feeling emotional and trying to hide it. He was just a bit uncomfortable going to London with near-strangers without his Mummy, but she was adamant about staying behind.

"I'm positive. This exciting new experience belongs only to you. That letter doesn't have my name or anyone else's on it." She leaned down to kiss the top of his immaculate ginger head. "New people, new places, a whole new world, all yours. Though really, quite sorry about Sherlock; he'll just have to be a tag-along."

All in present company laughed with Virginia, ignoring Sherlock's indignant screech. Lestrade Sr. bowed to her once again (he'd been doing it so much, Mycroft had figured it was just an odd wizarding custom) and kissed the back of her hand, like some chivalrous knight in shining yellow Wellies. "Not-a-worry, Madam Holmes, not-a-worry! Your boys are safe with me! We'll bring 'em home safe and sound."

Virginia left with another round of kisses to her boys, and hearty farewells all around. When the door had shut, Sherlock turned eagerly and looked all about the driveway for some kind of wizard motorcar, but found nothing. "Where is your car?" he demanded loudly, pale gaze still roving over the area. Mycroft even caught him eyeing the trees, if that wasn't the most ridiculous thing—

"Oh, we didn't drive," the boy, Gregory, said with an impish grin, as if telling some secret joke. "We Apparated and it was _brilliant!_ My first side-along …!"

Arty Lestrade patted his son on the back. "But that's not an option now, not with four o' ya. Could'a done a Portkey, but to be honest I didn't want to deal with the paperwork. So the Knight Bus it is!"

"…" Sherlock turned an inquisitive brow to his brother, but Mycroft just shook his head—he had no idea either. The Lestrades turned down the drive and beckoned the Holmes brothers to follow—and they did, jogging to catch up, dismissing their ignorance as temporary and therefore inconsequential. They would find out soon enough.

* * *

Oh, how Mycroft wished he'd never had to find out. _Oh God,_ how he wished.

The Knight Bus was a transportation service straight out of hell, flying forwards at breakneck speeds that should've been impossible for four patchy wheels and a dubious centre of gravity. Where the bloody hell were the laws of physics when you needed them?

Currently they were located on second level of the double-decker, on a squishy purple couch that was being flung back and forth as the monstrous vehicle zigged and zagged its way through the countryside and into London. Sherlock, the irritating little cretin, was laughing and screeching with delight, having the ride of his life, while Mycroft clung to the arm of the couch with white knuckles and got greener and greener about the face. About the time they were entering the city limits (and had to have an entire line of lorries jump out of their way) Mycroft lost control, scrambling forwards for the waste bin and losing his breakfast in it.

"Sorry, mate," said Greg in his ear, and he wrapped a steady arm around Mycroft's waist to keep them both anchored through the pitching. "It's really rough going if you're not used to it."

Mycroft tried to reply, but only ended up vomiting his words.

Finally, finally, the Knight Bus reached its destination, and Mycroft was allowed to disembark on shaky legs. Sherlock skipped along behind him, still irritatingly delighted, and now a tinge smug at his brother's moment of weakness.

"Sherlock. Shut. Up." Mycroft rasped, glaring as hard as he could. Arty came up behind him, taking in Mycroft's ashen face and shaking limbs worriedly.

"You all right there?"

Greg patted Mycroft on the back gently. "Yeah, Dad, he's fine. Little lighter in the gullet, but that's about the norm for the Knight Bus, innit?"

Arty immediately began rustling around in his bag. "Just the thing for that, wait just a tick …" Mycroft looked at the bag in alarm as an incongruous clattering sounded from within it, like many heavy objects falling over in a large warehouse instead of a little cloth satchel. "Ah, here we are!" He pulled out a large bar of chocolate in decorative gold foil. He broke off a square and handed it to Mycroft. "That'll put the colour back in your cheeks!"

Mycroft looked at the sweet dubiously, unsure how exactly chocolate would help his roiling stomach—but he was much too fond of sugar to refuse, so he obediently nibbled on a corner. As soon as he had swallowed, he reeled back in surprise. "Oh!" The chocolate was a warmth going all the way down to his stomach, where it sat radiating comfort to his churning stomach acid and chased the nausea away.

Arty grinned and clapped a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "There you are! Back to normal. Now, let's go get yours and Greggy's school things, shall we?"

"Da! Don't call me that!"

Mycroft turned to look at the dingy little pub the bus had let them out at, pretending not to feel Sherlock nicking the rest of the wizard's chocolate from his pocket as he did so. "The Leaky Cauldron," he read warily, just barely making out the words on the sun-faded, crooked sign. "This is a wizard's shop? It looks like it ought to be condemned as a health hazard."

Sherlock's head shot up. "What?" His eyes scanned Charing Cross Road, and to Mycroft's surprise they never once landed on the squalid little building in front of them. Instead, they slid from the record shop straight to the bookstore sandwiching the place, never registering the middle. "Where? I don't see any Leaky Cauldwon! Is it in this wecord shop? That's a stupid disguise. What if someone wanted a wecord? And here I assumed you all want to be a secwet."

And now Mycroft noticed that Sherlock was not the only one—the eyes of all passers-by moved past the dusty façade, as if they couldn't see The Leaky Cauldron at all. "Sherlock..."

Lestrade Senior, who knelt by Sherlock and gently placed a hand on his shoulder, saved him from having to come up with an explanation. "This place is protected by magic, lad, 'cause you're absolutely right—wizards have to stay a secret. Can't do that by flaunting a storefront on a Muggle street, can we?—so we made it invisible. It's going to be hard to see, what with yer magic not manifesting yet, but look really hard at the space between these two buildings. Do you see it? The Leaky Cauldron," the old man pressed gently, directing Sherlock's gaze exactly where it needed to be to see.

The frustration on his brother's face answered that question. The four-year-old concentrated, and squinted, and moved his gaze furiously over the visible edifices, but Mycroft could tell he never even caught a glimpse of it. The Lestrades exchanged glances.

Suddenly irritated, Mycroft marched up to his lost brother and took him firmly by the hand. "Follow me, Sherlock, I'll lead you inside." Greg recovered quickly, and went to hold open the door.

"Best take it at a run, mate. It's gonna look to him like he's running into a brick wall."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "It … it is a bwick wall!"

Mycroft started running.

"Wait wait wait! It's a wall, Mycwoft—we'll cwash…!" But they didn't. Mycroft went over the threshold and Sherlock, with a stuttered gasp, was dragged after him.

The barman and smattering of people in the pub all looked up when two children came barrelling through the door, one screeching at the top of his lungs.

"'Ey now, lads, pipe down won't ye?"

Mycroft let go of Sherlock, flushing more with exertion than embarrassment. Did he ever mention that he hated rigorous exercise? Gregory and his father strolled in casually behind them, smoothing things over with the barman.

Together they moved to the back of the pub, Greg pointing out the pair of vampires in the back booth discreetly to Sherlock, who was much less subtle in his gawking. "But you haven't seen anything yet," he said louder, grinning at both Holmes as they went out to a little courtyard and faced another brick wall (Sherlock eyed it dubiously). "Check _this_ out!"

Lestrade Senior produced his wand from inside his jacket, and counted three bricks up and two across from the bin lid, and then tapped it thrice. Sherlock gasped loudly and even Mycroft couldn't contain his shock and awe as the bricks rolled back in layers, forming an archway that at the very top pronounced DIAGON ALLEY.

And suddenly they were not in a dirty back alley, but engulfed in a crowded, colourful cacophony of light and sound. Men and women alike, mostly in wizarding garb the likes of Dumbledore's, milled about the shops lining each side of the street. Cats and children wended their way through legs, owls hooted and swooped overhead, and all manner of magic cavorted about the place, from the moving pictures on the fliers hung about to the enchanted window displays.

Mycroft was lightheaded with wonderment, and he distantly noted that his jaw was hanging open but he couldn't do a single thing about it. The Wizarding World, at last …! It was unlike anything Mycroft had pictured, (although admittedly that wasn't saying much considering he wasn't very imaginative). Still … this wonderful, lively world had a place for him, and nothing had ever seemed more incredible to him than that simple fact.

Sherlock reached out and steadied himself on Mycroft's thigh, his knees obviously gone to water. "Mycwoft …" he breathed, barely heard over the rabble.

"I know."

Arty grinned. "Welcome to Diagon Alley, boys! Right then. Off to Gringott's first, I believe, to open young Mycroft here an account. Greggie, why don't you take the little tyke and go start your own shopping? You're gonna be a big Second-Year this year, you can be responsible." He ignored both irritated faces to plant a large hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "Come on, lad. We'll get you set up as a right proper wizard, we will!"

With plans to meet up later, the group split: Greg and Sherlock into the nearest shop and Mycroft and Arty up to the top of the hill, where Mycroft's future was waiting to start.

* * *

Mycroft left the bank two hours later with the key to his own vault and a jingling pouch of currency (whose names and conversions he'd already memorized). It didn't leave much time for shopping before they needed to meet up with Greg and Sherlock, so he mentally prioritized his shopping list.

"Madam Malkin's is right here, if you wanna do that first," Arty suggested, pointing to a building on the left-hand side of the street coming from the bank. Robes for All Occasions, the sign declared.

A wizard-tailor was not all that different from a normal tailor, Mycroft discovered, as fat Madam Malkin prattled noisily on to her captive audience and poked him with sewing needles. Except, of course, for the floating tape measure and self-scissoring scissors. That was different.

"All the accoutrements, dear boy, all the accoutrements—the cuffs and tie are colourless now, but that'll change as soon as your Sorted—they'll be your house colours, you know. And also, these blank patches here, they'll be your House crest. Clever little charm, a dear family secret!" When the uniform was all magically folded and packed away in a dress box, Mycroft had to pick out a cloak from the sample rack. She gushed over his selection. "Oh, a fine choice! The best money can buy. Thick material, pure silver fastenings—the lining is made from the pelt of a chimera, which produces its own heat! Quite rare, quite rare. You'll never be cold!"

Mycroft had reached out to feel, and to his surprise Arty had as well, petting the soft fur with an awestruck look on his face. Suddenly it seemed quite rude to be flaunting his family's wealth in front of the lower-middle-class man, but he didn't quite know what to do about it. His mother had insisted on the best, and the best is what Mycroft was used to.

An hour and a half later saw the pair finally leaving the shop, laden with several dress boxes tied up with string and secured with a wax seal. They had only an hour before they were to meet the others.

"Where to next?" Arty asked.

Mycroft didn't hesitate. "Regardless of the closeness of the shop, I must insist on getting my wand. I've waited months for it, I can hardly stand to wait another minute."

Arty chuckled, and they headed back down the cobbled street to the complete opposite end, where Ollivander's Wand Shop lay. Arty took his boxes and had a seat outside, ushering Mycroft through the door with the promise of staying put. "Wands choose the wizards, Mycroft, and they can get a bit nasty if they decide not to like you. I'll be less inclined to be collateral damage if I wait here."

With that rather ominous sentiment, Mycroft stepped inside the dusty little shop alone. A little bell tingled somewhere in the depths of the store, hidden by stacks upon stacks of thin narrow boxes—wands.

"Hmm … first child in the family. Don't know which family—ah, but an old family, yess …" The unexpected muttering coming from behind him startled Mycroft badly. He whirled around, only to come face-to-face with a wispy old man with startlingly wide silver eyes, pouring pale light into the dusk like lamps.

"H-hello, I'm, er … here for a wand?" Mycroft cursed himself for the obvious statement, flushing deeply. He didn't like being startled.

The man continued to mutter to himself as he looked over Mycroft's form. "Tall, red hair, the put-upon airs of Pure house—hm, might you be a Macmillian? Or perhaps a Prewett relative?"

"No, Sir. It's Holmes—Mycroft Holmes."

Ollivander's eyes narrowed, and then widened in realization. His large eyes looked like twin moons set against his face, which was quite disconcerting. "A _Muggleborn!_ How truly delightful!" He suddenly grinned, eyes still wide, and shook Mycroft's hand. "Magnificent! It is rare that I am fooled by appearances, Mr Holmes! This should be a wonderfully challenging consultation, indeed. Muggleborns almost always are. Come, dear boy, come up to the counter."

Ollivander continued mumbling distractedly. "Yes—for you, subtlety will be the key … I have _just_ the wand!" He disappeared down one of the narrow aisles. He returned with a beechwood wand; which, when Mycroft picked it up, somewhat shuddered and made a sound like a blown raspberry. He flushed in embarrassment, but Ollivander simply whisked the wand away. "Nevermind, my boy—we need subtlety, yes, but perhaps not _that_ much. Let me try …"

Mycroft handled a few more wands, each time receiving lacklustre and sometimes violent responses from the objects in question. Mycroft began to grow uncomfortable in the wake of so much failure, but Ollivander just grew more excited.

"My, my! Such a challenge, Mr Holmes! I like that in a customer. We can expect good things from you, yes indeed! Let's see. Subtle with a dignified presence, elegant charm, cleverness with just a touch of candour … **Oh**! Oh, I know just the wand, wait a moment!"

At first glance, the wand lying in the velvet-lined box looked the same as many of the other wands Mycroft had tried that morning. It was about the same length as his elbow-to-wrist ratio, and the wood had a beautiful cream-coloured hue. "Elm wood, eleven inches, solid, and containing a single hair from the tail of a Unicorn. Go on and give it a wave!" Ollivander urged.

As it turned out, Mycroft didn't even need to wave it. As soon as he'd laid a single finger on its polished surface, the wand shuddered violently in its box and a frisson of sheer anticipation had rocketed down Mycroft's spine, leaving him breathless and grinning. As he closed his fingers around it, gold lights spiralled out of tip, making whistling noises as they sailed up towards the ceiling and exploded into shimmering sparks.

"Ah, the strong reaction of a wand well-matched," Ollivander sighed delightedly as he boxed up the wand and took the seven Galleons payment. Mycroft tried not to look to eager as he took hold of the box.

"Thank you, sir! Good day!"

"Oh, Mr Holmes …" Mycroft had been nearly out the door when Ollivander's soft voice called him back from the sunshine. He turned to see eyes fixed on him in consideration. "In the course of a lifetime, a man pays his loyalties to a great many institutions, both just, unjust, wise and unwise … but we must first and foremost be loyal to _ourselves._ The wand you hold in your hand has the potential to be your most formidable ally. Use it wisely—Elm wands will not suffer fools."

Confused and alarmed (why were so many of the wizards he met fond of giving him random lectures? First Dumbledore, now Ollivander ...) Mycroft uttered a "Yes, sir" and left the dusk behind.

* * *

"Well," Arty sighed after all the packages had been gathered, "There are several options at this point, Mycroft. We can shop-hop and pick up the extraneous supplies, like quills and parchment, or we've just enough time to hit Eyelops Owl Emporium if you want to pick out a bird. And by that I mean an owl, and _not_ a woman," he added with an impish grin, laughing at the way Mycroft's cheeks pinked. "It's also right across from Florean Fortiscue's, so there'd be no rush afterwards."

Mycroft almost dismissed the notion—he already _had_ an animal. The letter had said he was allowed a cat, so he would bring Peter along. But after chewing on his decision, he soon changed his mind. Taking Peter would mean leaving Sherlock without a friend in the house, which was unacceptable. It would be more logical to leave the cat at home, where he could keep an eye on the accident-prone child. Despite all his yowling otherwise, Peter was quite fond of the boy, so Mycroft knew he could trust him in this.

That decided, they went the Owl Emporium, where Mycroft began the tedious process of interviewing every specimen that caught his eye. The beautiful barn owl he'd chosen first had talked too much; the medium-sized brown owl was too stupid. The Screech owl too catty, the tawny too needy—Arty followed dubiously behind him, watching Mycroft talking to birds that seemed to chirrup back, growing more and more confused until he could take it no longer.

"What are you, uh … looking for, exactly? We've seen many beautiful owls …" He tapered off, as if feeling rude for asking at all. Mycroft turned his green eyes away from a pompous Snowy owl to look at the man. For a moment, it sounded like he'd intended to ask a different question, but changed his mind at the last moment. No matter. He responded honestly.

"I'm looking for an owl with a personality that doesn't put me off. Some manners and a shred of intelligence would be nice. The owls we've seen so far all talk too much." He sent a disapproving glare to the Snowy owl on the perch behind him. "Or are irritating narcissists." The Snowy looked over its beak at him and hooted in reprimand.

_At least I have good looks to admire, Ugly_. Mycroft grit his teeth and resisted the urge to knock its cage over.

Arty looked even more confused at this, even a little bit sceptical. "What do you mean, talk too much? I don't think you'll find an owl that doesn't hoot at least occasionally."

"Sir, it is not the hoot, but what is intended by the hoot that rankles me. If I am to have a Familiar, it should not be one so inane a conversationalist." He moved on from the Snowy, to a cage tucked up in the back, almost out-of-sight. It was a thicker cage than the others, and inside was a large, intimidating Tiger owl. It looked down at him warily, but not distastefully.

"Hm. The placement of your cage would indicate that you possess a certain characteristic that the owners of this shop find undesirable in a partner. So tell me, do you bite everyone, or is it just the shop owners?"

The orange-and-brown speckled owl hooted softly. _I don't like unworthy humans_.

"I see. And if I were to buy you, would you bite me? Am I unworthy?"

Arty now had an incredulous look on his face. "You're not really … I mean you can't really talk with owls, it's … that's—"

"Why? Have you ever tried it?" The words were casually tossed over his shoulder. His eyes remained on the cage. Mycroft was more interested in the owl.

The Tiger owl cocked its head almost ninety-degrees. _You listen. You hear the words unspoken and understand them. It is … interesting. I suppose I could leave your finger unbloodied, if you got me out of here._

And so, after convincing the shop owners that yes, he really did want this owl, and making sure that the awful cage was replaced by a pleasing wicker one, Mycroft bought himself a new companion.

Outside, he was confronted by an awestruck Arty. "Cor blimey. You're a Strigimouth, then?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You can speak to owls. How long have you been able to speak to owls?"

Mycroft blinked. "I don't know. I haven't exactly spoken to owls before today."

Arty's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "How did you know to speak to them, then?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I've been speaking to animals since I was little. I've spoken to rabbits and cats, and plenty of other birds. It didn't cross my mind that I wouldn't be able to speak to owls."

Arty looked absolutely gobsmacked. "Wha—you can speak to … _bloody hell_!"

Now Mycroft was getting confused, and just a bit defensive. "What? I'm a wizard; surely there are lots of wizards who can speak to animals. The entire concept of a Familiar would support this conclusion—"

"Yeah, _some_ can speak to one type of animal … but never more than one! I've never heardof a wizard who could speak to all of them! That's … if you're telling the truth, that's amazing!" His eyes were wide and he was gesturing wildly with his hands, drawing attention from passers-by.

Mycroft didn't know what to think. He'd never even considered that his talent for tolerating the chattering of animals was extraordinary even by wizard's standards. Was this some new level of strangeness, or was it connected to his abilities as a Silvertongue? Just what exactly was he capable of?

They walked across the street to Florean Fortiscue, Arty shooting Mycroft odd glances all the while. Mycroft kept his eyes determinedly forward, fighting a blush and rising bile in his throat—the way Arty Lestrade looked at him was exactly how Father had looked at him, the night he walked out on Mummy. He hated that look, like he was something to fear, a freak. He decided right then and there that he would never talk to animals again in front of other people—he would keep this talent a secret, along with his silver tongue.

Too much attention was, after all, a dangerous thing.

* * *

At the end of the day, all shopping tucked away in Mycroft's new magical trunk (it was light as a briefcase and was much larger inside than it was outside), they braved the Knight Bus once again for a ride back to Sussex and the Holmes estate. It was a relief for all of them—Sherlock had been getting unbearable as he got more and more exhausted, and Mycroft himself was tiring of the tension between him and Lestrade Sr. It had been there since the Owl Emporium. The man spoke to him differently now. He wasn't unfriendly, per say, but it was careful. A bit chary. Mycroft didn't like it.

And really, there had been tension everywhere, in the way wizards and glanced warily at one another, in the way shoppers had scuttled from shop to shop, never pausing to socialize in the street, in the whispers and furtive glances. Sherlock had noticed it keenly. He told Mycroft of an incidence in Flourish and Blott's where a group of boys had cornered Greg to jeer and call him a Mudblood. When Sherlock had come to the rescue by insulting the boys' inbred parents and lack of intelligence, they had turned on him, calling him a filthy Muggle and throwing stones at his head as Greg ushered him away. When a horrified Mycroft had interrogated Greg, the silver-haired boy was vague and dismissive, just saying that the Dark Arts were getting popular again and people were jumpy about it.

Greg and Arty saw them off at the end of their drive with fond farewells (Arty still treating Mycroft with kid-gloves), and a promise from the younger Lestrade that he would see Mycroft on the train. They'd stayed on the bus, which disappeared in the blink of an eye and a loud bang.

Mummy was already in bed by the time they got into the house, and Sherlock followed suit immediately, leaving Mycroft to lug his new belongings upstairs by himself. He left his trunk by the end of the bed, and cleared a space on top of his dresser for his new owl's cage. The Tiger owl screeched, hopping restlessly around his perch. _If you keep me in here one second longer I **will** bite you. Let me out. I want to hunt_.

"Yes, here—I'll open a window." He opened his bedroom window and then hit the latch on the wicker cage. "I still need a name for you."

The owl hopped out on the edge of the dresser, and then flew across the room to perch on his desk chair. _Then give me one. Don't make it stupid. And hurry up_.

Mycroft thought hard. "I don't know; I'm not very creative. I want it to be sophisticated, something noble …" He looked helplessly around his room for inspiration. "Greek philosophers' names would be too pompous. Rousseau is too French. Marx, too communist. Orwell—good heavens, no. Hm. I need some better books."

The owl ruffled his feathers. _Bored_. Mycroft almost chuckled at that. "Perhaps I should call you Sherlock." He did laugh, after that, when the owl gave him such a scandalized look and called the name ridiculous.

But he had found his inspiration—thinking of Sherlock made him think of the violin and that piece his brother was currently sawing out. It was a concerto by Mozart. "Amadeus. What about that? It's elegant and sophisticated, and sounds lovely. I like it."

The newly-christened Amadeus tilted his head 90 degrees and hooted softly. _It's not terrible. It'll do_. He then spread his considerable wingspan and sailed out of the open window.

Mycroft followed and sat on the windowsill to watch him go, putting his head in his hands and whispering softly to the ever-shrinking form in the skies.

"Goodnight …"

* * *

**I would like to take this moment to explain the idea behind Mycroft's ability to speak to animals.**

**By creating the concept of Parselmouth and writing the scene with Harry at the zoo, JK Rowling has shown that the animals of Harry's world possess an aptitude for communication that rivals a human's. To those who can speak their language, the animals can communicate with human-like gestures and sentiments. The way she depicts owls also confirm this idea—they respond to and interact constantly with the wizards, often showing human emotions. (How often has Hedwig looked reproachful, or angry, or has responded violently to a careless comment?)**

**So why stop at just snakes? Digging through folklore and legends, we see many stories of witches and their Familiars—snakes, yes; but also spiders, ravens, cats, hares, owls, etc. So if there is a snake-language, why can't there also be a cat-language, and a rabbit-language, and an owl-language? And if the languages are magical, an instinctive form of communication that cannot be taught (again as evidence by Harry's Parseltongue) then wouldn't a Silvertongue—a person who is so attuned to the magic of words that they can wield it as a weapon—instinctively feel the power in any language and interpret it accordingly? Wouldn't a master of all words also be considered a master of all languages?**

**So therefore, the Silvertongues in my story are not only capable of manipulating the minds of men, but also communicating with and manipulating a myriad of fauna. It's a bit of risky storytelling, making Mycroft so unique even as a magic-touting wizard genius, but I own up to that fact. This isn't professional writing, it's just for fun, so it's all good.**

**Hope that clears up any doubts that have been surfacing over my plot choices.**


End file.
